


but if the world were ending

by Wishmaker



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29402529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishmaker/pseuds/Wishmaker
Summary: "We're in Italy, Martín," Andrés chastises, but his closed-off expression speaks volumes. He places his hand on Martín’s, placatingly. His hands are still cool, how? "Your favourite city, no less. Let's not ruin the day by worrying."
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	but if the world were ending

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyy new friends I hope there's a fandom for this because I ship Andrés and Martín so hard it's a little painful and I just finished S4 yesterday so I could finally post this!!  
> This is the first fic I've finished in nearly six years - so I feel a little bit accomplished.

Andrés has impossibly dark eyes. They are so dark that there should be nothing to see in them, but there is. His eyes are always looking somewhere; past you, at you, towards you, to the ceiling, out the window. They are everything he is, an unmasked window to the soul if Martín has ever seen one. Even though Andrés has an excellent poker face and a knack for hiding his true feelings behind a grin, Martín can always tell when there are shadows in his eyes.

Martín thinks about himself when he sees those eyes. He thinks about what they see in him. A smaller man, a lackey of sorts perhaps. A cherished companion, certainly – Andrés has often acknowledged this. A younger man, at least in spirit, less world-weary. Do they pity him? They don't; Martín could tell if that was the case. But they don't adore him, at least not the same way they adore other people, _women_. Martín adores. No matter what he wants or attempts, it’s an integral part of who he is, more natural than breathing.

He knows that Andrés cares about him. He wouldn't keep him around, otherwise. Andrés doesn't keep anything that doesn't please him; whether it's places, people, trinkets or identities. But he has kept Martín, all these years. Maybe that’s the reason Martín is so attached to him; the majority of his adult life, he’s been by Andrés’ side. It’s hard to not let that shape one’s entire being, to mould it into a better fit, one half of a whole. He hadn’t really tried, but he had certainly failed.

They play goriziana, lazily, no commitments or obligations on a Sunday afternoon. Andrés wins most games, but he’s a good sport about it, never boasting or rubbing it in. For him it’s not about winning, but about the game, about the plan and the strategy. He grins at Martín across the pool table as he chalks his cue.

Martín used to be the better one, still remembers teaching Andrés to play this very game. Andrés is a natural though, like his hands were made for holding the pool cue. His movements are precise and calculated, he never wavers. Sometimes he even plays in tournaments, when he’s in the mood, when he needs something to occupy his hands and his mind, always placing in the top ten but never winning. He doesn’t care for the attention that comes with winning.

All of that is why Martín is so surprised to see him score a foul, hitting the red ball first and negating the six points he would have scored otherwise.

Andrés doesn’t mention it, just sighs, leaning on the table with both hands and pushing himself up. “My mind wandered,” he offers as an explanation. It’s a lie; Andrés is always perfectly present, focused on everything he does. That is his way of interacting with the world, always giving himself up fully. It’s exactly what draws Martín in.

He must know that Martín would never fall for such a ruse. Regardless, Martín doesn’t ask or press the issue. He knows he should, he even wants to, but he cannot bring himself to do it. He knows that something will change the moment he does, and he’s unwilling. Matters are well as they are, are they not? _Why ruin a good thing?_ Sometimes his inner voice drawls at him the way Andrés does, and he can’t bring himself to be anything but fond. So instead of anything real, he simply says, “A lady on your mind, perhaps?”

Andrés grins at that, effortlessly taking the opportunity offered to him. “Well, if you’re asking, there was actually one, not so long ago, she was lovely, her name was… ah, _Irina_.” He tilts his head back, clearly reliving some memory or other. Martín doesn’t mind it, he never has – actively anyway – because he lives through Andrés, exclusively. He knows that this is something they will never agree on, women and sex. But he’s made his peace with it, is content to remain by his side. This is the price he pays, every day, for staying.

Andrés goes on to win anyway, by quite a margin because Martín’s mind _had_ wandered, and Martín allows himself to wonder if he may have overreacted.

But these things keep piling up. Martín may be hyperaware when it comes to Andrés, but he knows he’s not wrong.

When they meet with Sergio to discuss plans and to have coffee, it’s clear that he also knows, suspects, fears. Him and Martín dance around the topic for the entire time they are there, both of them perhaps wanting to ask but neither of them having the nerve to do so. And so they don’t, they let Andrés sing _Irina’s_ praises, allow him to make them chuckle reluctantly as he goes on another tandem to discuss why all his former conquests and lovers simply pale in comparison to this one.

Sergio has never liked Martín anyway, has never trusted him, will often corner Andrés to tell him to cut his partner in crime loose. Martín knows this because Andrés always tells him afterwards, with a low chuckle, like he finds the idea somehow ludicrous. Martín doesn’t care about whatever Andrés’ brother thinks; he is here to stay, as long as Andrés will have him.

A month passes, thankfully devoid of any more encounters with Sergio, but increasingly plagued by even more abnormalities, details Martín has to continue ignoring even as they begin to pile up and threaten to bury him alive.

“What will you do, after?” Andrés asks him one day, seemingly out nowhere, over a game of scopa.

“After?” Martín repeats cautiously, because clearly he’s not referring to the game.

“The job,” Andrés specifies, capturing a seven of cups, drumming the table thoughtfully with his fingers. “What will you do after? With all the money and an even bigger bounty on your head?”

“I don’t know,” Martín admits quietly, feeling lost, “What do you want to do?”

Andrés shrugs. “Buy an island, probably. Retire there with Irina.” Martín doesn’t seem to be either included or excluded in this plan, but there is no question for him. He cares only about the plan and Andrés, and after the job only one of those will remain.

“It sounds good,” he replies, both an acknowledgement and a promise, capturing a two and a four of swords and earning a scopa. He turns the four face up as a silent taunt, but this doesn’t earn the usual, dramatic reaction from Andrés. He just looks tired as he deals them more cards.

Andrés has always been attractive, full of energy and haughty, but clearly comfortable in his own skin. However, he has grown more pale, lately. A slightly greyish tint to his skin. A shadow underneath his eyes. A tired sigh when he hoists himself up from bed. A hand rubbing his temples.

He has grown more pale and Martín takes him to _Sicilia_. It's the first time it's him taking Andrés anywhere, it's usually the other way around. And it’s always something flashy with Andrés; a metropolis they can lose themselves in. Rio de Janeiro, New York, Cairo, Singapore. Even Buenos Aires – _where Martín pretended he didn’t know every single street, let himself be charmed by Andrés carefully studying maps and tourist guides_. Martín doesn’t need to lose himself, but he never argues or disagrees. He will go where Andrés wants him.

"Why, Martín," Andrés says, looking vaguely impressed, watching the yachts come and go. "You're learning." It’s 35 degrees and Martín couldn’t have found a hotter, brighter place if he had tried.

Martín shrugs, trying not to look sheepish. Andrés never looks sheepish. He’s not even sure what about this has Andrés impressed; is it the wine, the view, the city or the heat? "This is my favourite city." He hasn’t been back for years ( _not since Andrés_ , his mind supplies), but he had once felt at peace here, in his foundational years. It’s difficult to erase what made you, and for him that stands for both Sicily and Andrés. He loves Sicily because of the history: the rise, fall, rise, fall. High culture, mafia, sometimes simultaneously. A steady rhythm, not a pounding but a hum.

"Is it?" Andrés grins, like that’s somehow amusing to him. "I would have thought it would be something bigger. Berlin, maybe?"

Hearing him say something so foolish would hurt, if Martín didn’t know that it wasn’t as uncaring as it sounded. It was just that he has spent so long consumed by Andrés’ flame, he no longer holds many differing opinions. "You are merely projecting, Andrés." He knows that Andrés loves Berlin, something about the war and the history and the recovery. Something about the inequality between the East and the West has always drawn him in. They have been to the Wall a thousand times, circled a little part of what had been left as a sad symbol, stepped from East to West and back again, had drinks at that tacky bar at Checkpoint Charlie, and Andrés had laughed.

" _Andrés_ ," he repeats his own name in a drawl, mimicking the way Martín says it. Was there love in the way he said it? Affection? Yes. But how could he help it?

(If anyone ever asked him when he fell in love with Andrés – no one ever would, gratefully, not even Sergio had the nerve – he couldn’t say. He hadn’t known it for many years, but then one morning, he wasn’t even sure which one, he woke up and suddenly he was aware. He was aware that there had been nothing much in his life of value in some years, except Andrés, Andrés, _Andrés_. And he had turned to his side and closed his eyes again, only to be rudely awoken soon after by Andrés, _of course always_ _Andrés_ , waltzing into the room with a new plan of how they were going to seize first the day and then the world.)

In the early afternoon, Andrés bought a tacky, overly large sunhat, ostensibly just to see Martín’s reaction – a fond scoff. Andrés seems to like it regardless. It clashes with his shirt, sleeves rolled up in the heat, and silk tie, but with his confidence and elegance anything becomes a style. Martín would be outshined by him even if he wore a bespoke suit, but he has never minded. He belongs here, in Andrés’ shadow. He’s grateful to belong somewhere in his vicinity.

"I thought the heat would serve us well," Martín says, realising that it was the wrong thing to say at the expression that flashes across Andrés' face. A flash of pain. He has seen that expression more in the last three months than ever before, more than he ever cared to on that particular face.

"You know me too well," Andrés settles for, looking away from him, towards the sun. That's how Martín feels too, looking at him. Like Icarus, looking at something he knew would burn him, unable to look away. This might be the death of him, but he would welcome it. He has never had a choice.

"Something is wrong, isn't it?" He loathes himself for asking, but how is he meant to push it out of his mind? He isn’t like Andrés, he’s single-minded, he has to know. He cannot push things aside just because they don’t please him.

"We're in Italy, Martín," Andrés chastises, but his closed-off expression speaks volumes. He places his hand on Martín’s, placatingly. His hands are still cool, _how?_ "Your favourite city, no less. Let's not ruin the day by worrying."

It’s far from what Martín wanted to hear. Andrés is confirming that there is something wrong, yet it is serious enough that he doesn’t want to talk it out here and now. How could Martín do anything but worry?

Andrés seems to understand, watching him at war with himself, hears the unsaid because that’s how it always is, between them. "Name your price," he finally concedes.

"What?" Martín asks, confused. He’s not used to just taking the things he wants, not without Andrés surrendering them to him first.

"Name your price," he repeats, leaning closer before elaborating. "What will it take for you to drop this conversation until we're back on Spanish soil?"

"What are you offering?"

"Have a little creativity. What you can imagine - that's the limit. You can trust me to get it for you. You know I always _deliver_."

Martín would have never done it, normally. Normally he would have told himself, slowly and patiently, at length, what a bad idea it was and why exactly he should drop it. But now, he is worried. More than worried, he is suddenly scared; Andrés is usually the one who could deal with anything, but he doesn’t seem intent on dealing with whatever is happening now. Oh god, Martín feels sick.

"Can I kiss you?" Martín blurts out.

Andrés looks surprised at that. "Why?" he asks bluntly, "I offer you anything in the world, and that's your price?"

Why would he say something so stupid? Could he blame the heat for his sudden lapse in judgement? Martín looks away from him, can’t let his gaze trail down to Andrés chapped lips, red from the wine, and expose himself. "Why not?" he challenges. "We're in Sicily, with a bottle of Nero d'Avola. It's too hot to think." Oh, now he is blabbering, the very opposite of conspicuous. He is certain Andrés will be demanding a better answer, one that rings more true. One more capable of unveiling the depths of his passion. Or maybe he already knows, maybe this is one of the many things Sergio hisses at him as soon as he has Andrés alone. Martín couldn’t possibly pride himself on hiding his feelings well.

Andrés either doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. "Well, if it's what you wish, I'm nothing if not a man of my word," he agrees, thoughtful but serious. For a man of such loose morals and questionable ethics, Andrés clings tightly to what he perceives as honourable, Martín has never quite understood it but he can still appreciate it and—

If Martín had the time, he would have demanded quite loudly, _what_. But he doesn’t, because not sooner than Andrés has said "word", he’s moving his creaking chair closer, grabbing Martín by the back of his neck and crashing their lips together.

Even though Martín has never been on the receiving end before, he has seen Andrés kiss hundreds, countless of times. He kisses like a lover; slow, sensual, soft and tender. He kisses like he adores the other person more than anyone he’s ever met. He kisses like the world around them dims until there is nothing else.

This isn’t one of those kisses, however. This was war, teeth striking against one another, Andrés' tongue in his mouth in what has to be a filthy display, though there is no one to see it. Martín has never done anything quite like it, but instinct demands him to move, to fight. He couldn't be caught giving anything less than Andrés, after all. He reanimates, crowding Andrés’ space just the same, but it’s over too soon, before he has had enough – _not that he ever would_.

“Alright,” Andrés announces cheerily, pulling back, easily straightening his rumpled shirt, fixing his tie. Slipping back into himself in a way Martín could never. Martín doesn’t remember having pulled on the tie, but clearly he had. “You have been paid for your silence, _mi hermano_.”

“Andrés,” he begins to say, voice dark. He’s not sure what he was about to declare, admit, demand, confess, because he never gets the chance. Andrés silences him with a grin and a wave of his hand.

“Now, we had a deal, dear friend. We will enjoy your favourite city, we will drink and we will laugh. Whatever you want to talk about, it can wait until we’re back in Madrid.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!! Please kudo or comment or whatever, let me know you exist, there's no inspiration quite like support!!  
> The working title for this was "character study in Sicily" because honestly, that's all it is haha my attention span and patience don't extend beyond character studies
> 
> Oh yeah and title from P!atd's "Do You Know What I'm Seeing?" because surely I can't come up with a story *and* a title.  
>  _"I know it's mad, but if the world were ending // Would you kiss me or just leave me?"_


End file.
